


Doing My Own Part

by raeldaza



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fluff, M/M, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-14
Updated: 2016-03-14
Packaged: 2018-05-26 15:31:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6245332
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raeldaza/pseuds/raeldaza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is the organizer of an activist conference, and one of the guests seemingly refuses to, well, attend the conference.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Doing My Own Part

It’s precisely eight hours into the conference, thirty minutes from the end of the first day, and Enjolras can finally breathe. He finds himself sitting on a decently comfortable chair in the hotel lobby, and lets himself look around for the first time since he arrived three days ago to begin set up.

It’s a nice place, he knew that, but he didn’t expect all the artwork on the walls. There’s dozens of paintings – some nature, some portraits, the majority abstract. He finds himself staring at them, the swirling lines of red, yellow and purple – utterly meaningless to him, but transfixing nonetheless. It’s probably due to being overworked, underfed, and sleep deprived, but it takes him several minutes to realize there’s a young man, his age or a year or so younger, sitting under one of the portraits, back up against the wall, knees up to his chest, playing on his phone.

Enjolras frowns. He and his campaign rented out the entire hotel for the next week – the only people here should be staff of his campaign (all of whom he knows), staff for the hotel (which the man clearly is not), or guests (all of which should be in the conference room).

Heaving a sigh, he stands from his chair, and makes his way over.

“Excuse me, sir?”

The man looks up from his phone, where he’s doing remarkably well on a crossword, and starts slightly. “Huh?”

“Why are you sitting out here?”

He looks around, purposefully making a show of it. “Is there a reason I can’t?”

Enjolras can feel the tension building in his shoulders, and subtly takes a calming breath. Or not so subtly, going by the man’s judgmental eyebrow raise. “The conference has another twenty minutes left. You should still be inside.”

“Inside?”

“The conference room,” Enjolras grits out. If he weren’t dealing with this on borderline exhaustion, he’d have more energy to be polite. “No one is supposed to leave early – there’s vital information given in the last twenty minutes.”

“Like what?” the man laughs, putting his phone in his coat pocket. He stands, and leans up against the pillar, crossing his arms, exuding the casual confidence and seductiveness that Enjolras could never hope to replicate without at least three pints of alcohol.

“Like what particular issue you’re going to be lobbying for on Saturday. That’s rather important, isn’t it?”

“Is it though?”

“It is. Please go back into the room.”

“Nah mate,” the man replies, shrugging. “I’m chill.”

“It is not _chill_ ,” Enjolras says. “No one is allowed out. Please return.”

“Are you going to drag me?” the man asks, and falls back down to where he’s sitting. Enjolras can’t believe he’s practically being reduced to a grade school teacher, having to try to coax a stubborn child from sitting to go where he’s supposed to before mealtime.

“This is unacceptable behavior, sir. You have to be at least a congressional district advocacy leader to be admitted to this conference – you obviously have some political aspirations. This kind of behavior is not going to get you elected to any kind of seat.”

The man actually has the audacity to laugh, and it’s so loud that it echoes in the empty lobby. “Maybe I want to set a precedent for a new kind of politician. Those who say and do what they want instead of lie.”

He can choose to either walk away and punch a hole in the wall, or give up the frustration and accept that this conversation isn’t going anywhere and let it lie.

He takes a seat next to the man.

“Some politicians are already like that,” Enjolras points out. “Without acting like a toddler.”

“Toddler is rather inequitable. And I dare you to tell me one politician that actually says what is on his or her mind.”

“Maybe people shouldn’t always say what is on their mind,” Enjolras retorts mildly. “Not that they should lie, but decorum is a thing.”

The man elbows him in the stomach. “Are you trying to tell me I lack propriety?”

Flirting isn’t this easy for Enjolras. Never. It’s a game, and not one he’s ever been adept at, just like football or track or baseball. He always feels like he’s running to catch up, tripping over his words, fumbling, an awkward mess that never graduated middle school when it came to teasing with a purpose.

Not idly, he wonders why he’s flirting with a man who is childish enough to sit on the ground instead of listening to the last half hour of an expensive conference. One that Enjolras put together, he can’t help but remember.

“I am trying to tell you that sitting on the floor playing with your phone isn’t the behavior people like to see in their elected officials,” Enjolras says, trying to steer the conversation back on course. “The political world is like a body – the system is the backbone, the politicians are the hands, the activists are the heart. Leaders need to encompass it all, be the legs that makes it move, and–”

The man is staring at a piece of art above Enjolras’ head, and he feels a flare of frustration.

“Are you even listening to me?” he barks. The man’s gaze slides back.

“Yeah.” He blows a lock of curly hair out of his face. “You like metaphors a lot.”

Enjolras feels a stab somewhere in the vicinity of his lower chest, one he used to feel a lot back in high school before he tamed and conquered it – _take me seriously, please._

“You’re a representative for my campaign. The least you could do is live up to our expectations.”

“Yeah? And what are those?”

“That you attend what we ask you, do as we ask you, and act as we ask you.”

“Sounds a little authoritarian for me.”

Enjolras stares. “It’s like arguing with a brick wall.”

“No,” the man counters. “It’s like arguing with a brick wall that argues back.”

Enjolras stares at him for a second, a little lost in how to respond, when he hears his voice being called.

“Why are you sitting on the floor?” Courfeyrac asks, coming down from the staircase to their right. “Come on, the conference is about to end – we have to make sure the speakers are properly thanked before they leave.”

Enjolras scrambles to stand, while the man continues sitting, watching Enjolras with an amused eye.

“Tomorrow starts at 8AM sharp. Be on time,” Enjolras instructs.

“Aye aye, captain.” He salutes. “I’m Grantaire.”

“Pleasure,” Enjolras replies, and spins. His heart beats in time with his footsteps, and he knows he’s being watched.

* * *

Enjolras doesn’t seem him again for two days, and when he does, it’s fifteen minutes before snack and the long break. He’s at the table, three brownies in his hand, and one tart already in his mouth.

“Stop eating that,” Enjolras snaps, striding up to him.

Grantaire swallows around the brownie roughly. “I’m creating scarcity – it drives up prices.”

Enjolras doesn’t think there’s a proper reply to that, so he ignores it completely. “The talk on the differences of lobbying the different political parties isn’t over. You’re missing a Washington Post political writer.”

“Shame,” Grantaire says, and Enjolras is sorely tempted to smack the food out of his hand.

“You’ll never pass our issue through congress if you don’t know how to lobby with the proper rhetoric. You shouldn’t be skipping the end of these programs.” Even to his own ears, he sounds frosty, and it makes Grantaire duck his head and look away, which even Enjolras can tell means he’s in the wrong. This man did volunteer his time to be here, after all. “I’m just saying,” he says, trying to lighten his voice a degree.

“It’s not like I’d get anything through anyway,” Grantaire says, snorting quietly. He starts walking, and Enjolras follows a step behind. Grantaire makes it to the wall across from the buffet table, and leans up against it, crossing his legs. Enjolras stays a few feet away, feeling awkward and out of place in a way he shouldn’t at his own event.

“Things do change, Grantaire. It’s not like we’re in the 19th century anymore – things have changed, and things will continue to change, as long as people keep trying.”

Grantaire looks at him sidelong. “I’ve got a quote for you, homie, and I want you to try to tell me where it came from.”

“Is there a point—”

“Humor me, compadre.”

Enjolras huffs and rolls his eyes, but stays silent.

“It is an undenied and easily explained fact that the numerous petty middle class of the good old times has been annihilated by manufacture, and resolved into rich capitalists on the one hand and poor workers on the other.”

Enjolras frowns. “Did I say that?”

Grantaire barks out a laugh, hand covering his mouth in mirth. “Not unless your name is Friedrich.”

“Enjolras,” he offers, and then frowns again. “Who in this century is named Friedrich?”

“No one,” Grantaire confirms. “He was born in 1820. And yet you thought his words could have come out of your mouth.”

“I see what you’re getting at,” Enjolras says after a few seconds, “but that’s all the more reason to fight.”

“Because people will still be fighting, and losing, the same battle two centuries after you have? And probably indefinitely after that?”

“Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will.”

“Frederick Douglass,” Grantaire guesses, and Enjolras nods.

“A man who fought for abolition. If he didn’t fight then, maybe we’d still be fighting, and losing, that same battle two centuries later.”

“What is it with activists and bringing up slavery? It’s like YouTube comments and Hitler – the end all be all of arguments.”

Enjolras sighs.

* * *

“Enjolras!” a voice calls out, interrupting his discussion with the United Nations ambassador about her upcoming speech on the place of the UN in furthering global relief efforts. He turns, and sees Grantaire at a table near the door, one hand waving wildly, the other holding a spoonful of tomato soup halfway to his mouth.

“You’re being hailed,” the ambassador says mildly. She gives him a smile, and a pat on the arm. “We can discuss this later, Enjolras.”

He’s three seconds away from telling her in no uncertain terms that she’s far more important to talk to than some random member, but that sounds douchey even to his own ears, so he just gives a tight nod, and walks his way over to where Grantaire’s beaming at him.

“Fucking hell dude,” he says the moment Enjolras is within earshot. The boy next to him eyes him for a moment before scooting his chair over, away just an inch. Grantaire ignores him to hold up a sweet roll. “Have you tried the fucking food here? Shit’s delicious.”

“Must be, given you needed three expletives to describe it.” Enjolras pulls the chair out next to him, and sits down. “You do know the dress code here is business professional, right?”

Grantaire dunks his bread in the soup without looking, managing not to spill any on the white tablecloth. “Yeah, I kinda got that impression. This is my dressiest shirt.”

Enjolras gives him a once over, taking in the wrinkled blue button down and vaguely black, frayed jeans, and decides to let it go. “Did you like today’s session so far?” Enjolras asks, deliberately changing the subject.

Grantaire snorts. “Parts of it. How did you get the President’s speech writer to come talk at eight in the morning?”

“I told you the other day, as you should know, I may add, this isn’t a small organization. We get shit done. We have bargaining power.”

“Guess so.” Enjolras is rather fascinated by how he’s managed to eat half a roll and a good portion of his soup without once breaking conversation or eye contact. “But dude, it was mostly just fucking depressing.”

Enjolras frowns, tapping his fingers on the tablecloth. “How so?”

“All that stuff about how poverty disproportionately affects women and shit – you’re just begging for an uphill battle with the electorate.”

“Meaning?”

“Look, your last campaign was about vaccinating children in Africa, right?”

Enjolras nods.

“What sick fuck is ever going to give you any backlash on that, except for appropriations committees and anti-vaxxer moms? And they only make up like, 1% of the population, and they usually are complaining about so called not-fatal diseases like chickenpox, not shit like polio – _cheesecake,”_ he exclaims, making Enjolras jump in his seat. Grantaire leans back in his chair to grab a piece from the waiter walking by. Enjolras becomes a little too aware that he was fixating on Grantaire’s mouth, and makes a direct effort to look Grantaire in the eyes, once he’s stabbing at dessert instead of soup.

“Anyway,” Grantaire continues, picking up where he left off. “That campaign was bound to work, duh. But poverty is sexist and shit is never going to work. It’s just going to be a massive expenditure in effort and time to no avail. Pointless.”

“Why?” Enjolras asks, and he knows it’s just a shade away from snapping.

“Because,” Grantaire answers, his mouth half full of cheesecake. “On this you’re going to get all the dude-bros and anti-fems and the so called progressive intellectuals who think women are already at the same place as men and focusing on them alone is sexist, let alone all the people who’re going to say that women aren’t poorer because of institutionalized sexism but instead because they don’t know how to bargain for better jobs, or whatever. Or just that poverty doesn’t come from discrimination or whatever, but from people not trying hard enough and being lazy.”

“But—”

“Come on man, can you honestly tell me you haven’t gotten those comments on your Facebook shares and shit?”

Enjolras flushes. He had a meeting just last night with the media coordinator on whether or not it was ethical to delete those exact comments, as they made up a nearing half of the comments on the page. “That just makes it all the more worth fighting for.”

“Pick your battles, man.”

“We did. We picked this one.”

Enjolras goes to stand, and startles at finding Grantaire’s hand pulling his arm back in. When he looks up, his eyes have grown serious. “I’m not saying it isn’t worthy. I’m saying it’s going to be far more difficult, and less winnable than other, possibly achievable aims that you and your considerable force of minions could take on.”

“We’ll leave the more achievable aims to the smaller organizations,” Enjolras elects to say, after a moment of deliberation. “Someone has to stand up for this eventually, or it won’t change.”

“It won’t change either way.”

“Did you know the details of this campaign before you were involved with us?” Enjolras challenges. Grantaire shakes his head. “Exactly. So we’ve changed one mind. That’s a start.”

He stands, and starts walking off towards the UN ambassador to finish his conversation. He can’t remember what they were talking about, though, and instead makes a beeline towards the bathroom, where he spends ten minutes with his head in his hands.

* * *

The rest of the week goes without any more drama, everyone completing their tasks easily enough, probably due to Enjolras’ overly detailed itinerary he had printed out, mailed, emailed, and faxed to the entire staff and guests months ahead of schedule. As the conference ends for the night at around eight pm, two days before it ends for good, half the crowd seems to be heading up to the hotel for well deserved rest, while the other half seems to be just starting, gearing up to going out and partying.

On a Tuesday night.

He won’t judge, but he also won’t partake.

Enjolras is already in the elevator when he makes out a head of scuffy black hair making his way over. Enjolras puts out a hand, holding the elevator, waiting for Grantaire to come to a stop by his side.

“Hi,” he greets.

Grantaire smiles back. “Hey.”

He’s wearing a loose fitted white button down, almost see-through, and Enjolras can just almost make out a quote on his bicep.

He doesn’t even realize he’s staring until Grantaire says, “It’s Fitzgerald.”

Enjolras eyes snap up, and he can physically feel his face warm. “Fitzgerald?”

“Of the F. Scott variety.”

“Gatsby?” Enjolras guesses.

“ _The Beautiful and the Damned_ ,” Grantaire corrects. He gives a quick grin. “Kind of like us, right?”

“What?”

“Never mind.” Grantaire leans up against the back of the elevator. Enjolras can’t help but think that he leans up against things a lot, like he’s trying to be Marlon Brando. Not that he’s exactly complaining. “Where are you headed?”

“My hotel room.”

“Not going out?”

Enjolras gives him a look, checking to see if he’s mocking, but he gets nothing but a sincere, questioning look in return, so he smiles. “No, I’ve had about enough. How about you?”

“The person I’m here for was going to just sleep, but he decided to go out with friends, so I’m unexpectedly alone for the evening.”

“You could come to my room.” Enjolras eyes widen at precisely the same time as Grantaire’s. “I just mean to talk. Or hang out. I was going to order a pizza, and you could chip in. Or something. I didn’t mean—”

“Relax.” Grantaire laughs. “I can do pizza.”

“Did you enjoy the conference today?” Enjolras says, cheeks still warm. Suddenly the elevator seems far too small, suffocating.

“The coffee was top notch.”

Enjolras looks skyward. The elevator light flickers. “I meant the goal setting session. Did you set goals on what you want to achieve for the next year?”

“I’d love to make more the minimum wage at some point,” Grantaire replies, and Enjolras sincerely cannot tell if he’s being serious or just fucking with him.

“How are you a congressional leader? God, you need to get fucking organized. No offence, but you don’t seem prepared enough for this job.”

“There’s a lot of things I’m not enough of to be that,” Grantaire says nonsensically, as the elevator stops and lets on three more people, effectively ending the conversation.

Enjolras leads him to his room silently, his room card making a small beep as he is let in.

“Make yourself at home.” He throws his jacket on his bed, sliding off his tie and toeing off his shoes simultaneously. He turns, and sees Grantaire roll up his sleeves before bending down to untie his shoelaces, giving Enjolras a clear view of his back muscles. He turns, face flushed, forcibly reminded of a wet dream he had last night.

“What kind of pizza do you want?”

“Literally anything,” Grantaire replies, “except mushrooms.”

“Deal.”

“Can I ask you something?” Grantaire says, once again leaning up against Enjolras’ wall. Enjolras is starting to think it might be a nervous tic.

“Of course.”

“Tell me why you think this organization can make a difference. Sincerely, truly, without optimistic bullshit.”

Enjolras looks down at his jacket on the bed, a dark blue, expensive thing, and suddenly feels way over his head, and has no idea why. “God, Grantaire.”

“Or do you not think you can?”

“It’s not that,” Enjolras disagrees, shaking his head. “It’s just that…”

He stops, and blows a curl out of his face.

At his silence, Grantaire walks forward so they’re side by side. “It’s just what?”

Enjolras looks over.

“Come on,” Grantaire nettles, lightly bumping shoulders. “I’m listening.”

That earns him a smile, albeit a small, enigmatic one. “You are."

* * *

“Hey, Enjolras,” Grantaire says. Enjolras looks over, to where he is walking down the stairs, shoulders hunched, hands in his pockets.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras acknowledges.

Grantaire comes to a stop in front of him, rocking on the balls of his feet, probably cold in the spring air. “Why are you outside?”

Enjolras shrugs. “During the presentations is my only down time during this entire conference.”

“What is exactly your role, again?” Grantaire asks, and lowers himself beside Enjolras on the stairs. His shoes have holes in them, and Enjolras can’t help but stare at them, a little entranced by the seemingly random beat they’re bouncing to. “I’m the conferences director.”

“So you created and put together this whole thing?”

Enjolras shrugs. “Basically.”

Grantaire gives him a long, long look, before dropping his gaze to his hands, which he’s rubbing together for warmth. The brick is getting cold even for Enjolras’, who is in full wool pea-coat. “That seems like a shit-ton of work.”

“Yeah,” Enjolras nods, “but it’s my job. And I love it.”

“That doesn’t mean you can’t be proud of the shit-ton of work you put into it.”

Enjolras laughs, unexpectedly warm from the faintest bit of praise. He sends a grin to Grantaire, who’s smiling, soft and kind, and the warm feeling kind of explodes into a little batch of fireflies. “Did you need something, Grantaire?”

“I wanted to apologize if I upset you at all this week. It wasn’t my intention.”

“What was your intention?”

“I don’t know. To bother you?”

Enjolras shakes his head. “I don’t believe that.”

Grantaire’s body is shuddering slightly, obviously from the cold. Enjolras should suggest that they go inside, should suggest that they continue this in the foyer, should suggest that it’s warmer in the lobby – but instead he shuffles closer, just slightly, sharing body heat. Grantaire leans into him, arms pressing up against each other.

“I don’t have a good answer for you. This whole, whole thing is about having your voice heard, right? I guess that’s just what I was doing. Having mine heard. But my voice says shitty things, so.”

“I mean, you were right. I just don’t understand how someone can be so pessimistic and yet volunteer so much of their time and energy into trying to make demonstrable change?”

Grantaire looks over, and something in Enjolras’ face makes him smile. “Has this been bothering you?”

“Yes,” Enjolras answers honestly, not bothering to lie. “Constantly. Why are here if you don’t care?”

“It’s that I don’t care. I just don’t think caring really does any good. It’s a waste of energy.”

“And yet you waste your energy on it.” Enjolras can’t decide whether that makes him a hundred times more impressive, to devote himself to a cause he doesn’t believe in for the sake of the possibility of good coming from it, or just plain stupid, to waste his time and energy and peace on something that won’t bring him any satisfaction, except perhaps that of being proved wrong. Both, maybe.

Grantaire doesn’t answer immediately, instead rubbing his hands up and down his jeans. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

Enjolras nods. “Though you’re still not in the conference room,” he points out. "It's almost over, you know."

Grantaire shoots him a grin, bright and startling and wide, nothing like the uncomfortable little ones he’s been giving Enjolras thus far. “Maybe I find you more inspiring than the speakers.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “I’m more inspiring than the CEO to the Global Fund?”

Grantaire doesn’t answer him, instead electing to stand, and offer Enjolras a hand. He takes it, allowing himself to be pulled up.

It’s warm, and the feeling lingers on his palm long after Grantaire lets go.

* * *

The last day is a chilly but sunny Thursday morning.

“Enjolras,” Courfeyrac says, pulling on his arm. “The uber is here.”

Enjolras lets himself be led forward by the crook of his arm, fingers never stopping from where he’s typing out an email. He trails after Courfeyrac, never looking up, vaguely aware that Courfeyrac’s put their luggage in the trunk. Subconsciously, as he slides into the backseat next to Courfeyrac, he catalogs that this car seems rather shitty for uber regulations.

“To the airport, gentlemen?”

Enjolras drops his phone.

His eyes snap up, meeting Grantaire’s deep brown ones in the rearview mirror. He blinks several times, aware his mouth his hanging open slightly. 

“Yes indeed, good sir,” Courfeyrac replies. His gaze slides over to Enjolras. “Ignore my friend. His social skills are wanting at the best of times, and nine o’clock in the morning is hardly the best of times.”

“I’m well aware.” Grantaire laughs, and the casual insult is enough to snap Enjolras out of his surprise.

“What the fuck are you doing driving an uber?” 

Courfeyrac clicks his tongue, obviously disapproving, but, in the first time in perhaps ever, Enjolras could not give less of a shit about his opinion.

“Well, I know I’ve tried to describe how the economy works to you before, Enjolras, but here I go again. People have jobs to make money, so they can trade it for goods and services—”

“Stop being a shit,” Enjolras interrupts. “The conference officially ended five minutes ago. How would be on shift this fast?”

Grantaire blinks at him. Courfeyrac’s taken to obviously and unsubtly staring at the two of them, cluing on to the fact that he’s probably missing something here and it probably will turn into great blackmail material.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire says slowly, after a moment. His fingers are gripping the driver’s arm rest, clenching. “Come on. Did you really think I was the type to be a ‘congressional district advocacy leader,’ or whatever it is you called me? Do I really seem like I’m a conference-going type of person?”

“No,” Enjolras answers honestly. “But you are.”

“I am not.”

“But you are,” Enjolras repeats, stressing the last word. “You’ve been here all week. You’re always there at the end, ready to talk, or,” he waves his hand around in the air, "converse, or argue, or whatever you want to call it.”

Grantaire bites his lip, and shakes his head slightly. “Do you know Jean Prouvaire?”

Enjolras blinks at the non-sequitur. “Of course. Leader for district 12. Sweetheart.”

“Did you know that he isn’t staying at this hotel?”

“No?”

“He’s staying at the Hilton, in downtown.”

“Okay?”

“It’s far enough that he requires a ride every day to and from it.” Enjolras’ brain feels like there are two wires in his brain one centimeter from touching, from sparking his understanding. “And uber’s are much cheaper than cabs. Did you know you can request the same one, over and over?”

And there’s the spark, wires touching, bridge crossed, cliff jumped. 

“Oh my god, you never went to the conference.”

Grantaire nods.

“You were just picking up Jehan.”

Grantaire nods.

“I just came and, and, what, harassed you—”

Grantaire laughs, his eyes crinkling. “Maybe a little.”

Enjolras unbuckles his seatbelt. “We’re talking in private.”

He opens up the car door, ignoring Coufeyrac’s small “No, I want to listen,” and strides up to Grantaire’s door, who is already on his way out.

“You think I’d eventually be immune to you barking orders at me,” he says mildly. Enjolras’ stomach twists, but he still grabs Grantaire’s arm, pulling him over to a small, unoccupied patio to the right of the hotel. Grantaire follows along quietly at Enjolras’ marching pace. When they stop, he takes his arm back, crossing it over his chest.

Enjolras stares a second, at Grantaire’s rumpled jeans and three-day scruff and loose t-shirt, his idle pose and kind, acquiescing face.

“I have some things I want to say to you,” he says finally. 

“More?” Grantaire sounds impressed. “You never run out, do you?”

“Shut up. This is important.” 

Grantaire puts his hands up in surrender. “All right, all right.”

Enjolras takes a deep breath, and squares his shoulder. He looks Grantaire straight in the eye. “I was wrong this weekend.”

“What? How?”

“What I said – the frustration, the anger, the pushing – those are words meant for someone who has dedicated a portion of their life to public service and activism, and isn’t doing their part. You have done none of those things, and, in light of that, it was extremely wrong of me to say what I did.”

Grantaire shrugs. “You didn’t know.”

“I know, but it doesn’t matter. I still said it; you still had to hear it.”

“It doesn’t matter—”

“It matters,” Enjolras interrupts. “It matters to me. Not everyone is made to do this kind of work, Grantaire, I’m well aware of that, and treating people the way I treated you would not be a good recruitment method.”

“Oh, I don’t know about that,” Grantaire grins, his feet starting to tap. “You did get me to go to a few days of your conference thing.”

Enjolras blinks. “Why were you here all these days? That morning, at lunch—”

“And three sessions,” Grantaire completes. He grins, a little sly. “You did tell me to come at 8AM after all. I just followed instructions.”

“This conference was $500 to attend, Grantaire.”

“Turns out its really easy to sneak into for free.”

Enjolras wants to groan loudly, but refrains, because really, this is all his fault. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Courfeyrac’s face pressed up against the window of the car door, which he doesn’t deign to even acknowledge. “You never said anything.”

Grantaire shrugs. “It was funny at first, and then it got far enough that it was just awkward. I didn’t think it’d really matter in the end.”

Enjolras shrugs in acquiescence, because, really there’s not much else to say. It’s awkward for a moment, a tense silence. “I am sorry, Grantaire.”

“Yeah, I’m getting that. Don’t worry about it – truly. It was a fun, if odd, week. I don’t regret any of it.”

Enjolras nods, but doesn’t really feel any better.

“Come on,” Grantaire says, nudging him with his elbow. “Let’s get you to the airport.”

* * *

After studiously ignoring pointed looks and capitalized texts from Courfeyrac during the 35-minute drive, they finally pull up to the airport. For the first time in a long while, as he’s staring at the glass doors in front of him, with Grantaire two steps behind him, he has no idea what to say. In truth, they barely know each other; but somehow, it seems inexplicably wrong to just walk away.

“Well,” he says, and offers a hand to shake, which he instantly knows is too awkward and formal to get anything but a sarcastic shake in reply from Grantaire, which is exactly what he receives. “Perhaps I’ll see you next year? I’ll be sure to take an uber.”

“Sure,” Grantaire says. “Next year, then.”

Enjolras nods once, and after far too long a look, turns. Courfeyrac departs by his side with a wave in Grantaire’s direction.

“Come on, what the hell was that?” Courfeyrac whispers. “This is a rom-com in the making – we’re already at the airport for Christ’s sake. Where’s the dramatic speech?”

“Courfeyrac,” Enjolras says pleasantly. “Shut the fuck up.”

They’ve made it about twenty steps into the door when Enjolras feels a hand on his shoulder, turning him around.

“We’re not doing it like this,” Grantaire says, arms crossed across his chest.

Enjolras blinks.

“It’s the 21st goddamn _century,_ ” Grantaire barks. “If you want to talk to me still, we don’t have to act like we’re in a fucking 17th century serendipity Austen novel, where we know it’s true love if randomly meet each other in a bookstore in seventeen years. There are these things called _phones,_ Enjolras, and _texting,_ and _facebook,_ and _skype,_ and a hundred dozen other media outlets for communication. If this was giving me the brush off – so be it, fine, whatever, you’ve still given me more than I’ve expected, but I will not take ‘ _see you fucking next year’_ as a goddamn answer.”

“Oh,” Enjolras says dumbly. “Right.”

Courfeyrac looks positively delighted as Enjolras fumbles for his phone, handing it over. Grantaire fiddles with it for a minute or so, as Enjolras awkwardly rearranges his laptop bag on his shoulder.

“There,” he says, handing it back. “I’ve added myself as a contact, texted myself your number, accepted me as a friend on facebook and skype, and followed myself on twitter and snapchat.”

“Okay. Uh, thank you.”

Grantaire gives a sharp nod. “Text me right as the plane's taking off.”

Enjolras raises an eyebrow. “Why?”

“So I can wave to the sky.”

* * *

The plane lands well after dark. When he turns his phone off airplane, he has one text.

_Hello. If you don’t text me back, I’ll get the message._

Enjolras smiles, and begins typing.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I promise I am working on more substantial things. I just went to this exact conference last weekend, and everyone there was so hyped up on activist fervor, and was basically Enjolras, and there was an uber incident - and I just got inspired.
> 
> Also, if you do care that poverty is sexist, check out some cool [info](https://www.one.org/international/take-action/poverty-is-sexist/#report)
> 
> Kudo/comment if you'd like, it's always great encouragement. 
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://raeldaza.tumblr.com) if you so want.


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